


Hospitality

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clone Wars era, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Manipulation, Power Play, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “I still can’t believe they haven’t offered you a private office yet.  No tenure after seven years, and nothing but a cubicle and a split lab.  The Corps would be far more appreciative of your genius.”Galen turns back towards the mouse droid, bristling at the hope in Orson’s voice.  “I don’t think that I could withstand half of the abuse the Corps gives you,“ he says quickly, re-sealing its plating and setting it upright.  “Especially Tarkin's.”Orson takes Galen’s cheeks in his hands, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.  “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited him for dinner tonight.”A dinner with Admiral Tarkin spells trouble for Lieutenant Commander Krennic and Professor Erso’s domestic bliss.





	Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set around 20 BBY, shortly after Tarkin was promoted and right before the end of the Clone Wars.

“There we are. You just needed a little attention, didn’t you?”

 

Galen smiles at the responding whir of the mouse droid, as if it were capable of agreeing with him. He’d nearly shattered his knee when he’d tripped over it earlier, walking back to the chaos of his office with his manually-prepared caf, suddenly aware as to why the dispenser hadn’t been repaired since Orson had punched it that morning.

 

“It must be your motivator,” Galen had muttered, powering it down to half-capacity and carrying it into the living area. He’d been grateful for the opportunity to sit on the floor with his tool box and sip his caf, wincing when a drop had come to pool in the pristine carpet beside him.

 

“Not yet,” he says to the droid’s spinning wheels, hearing the flick of Orson’s key card as if from a distance. “Just let me re-seal your covering and then I’ll let you go.”

 

Large hands come to rest on Galen’s shoulders, teasing a path to his waist.

 

“Repairing a repair droid. How very like you.”

 

Galen looks up from his work, smiling when Orson pulls him into a greedy kiss. He’s surprised by the whine he emits when Orson pulls away, by the need he feels for Orson’s mouth upon his again, as though they haven’t been involved with one another in some capacity for over a decade now and married for nearly half as long.

 

“Mm, I never like going to work knowing you’re alone here. You must get lonely without me or a horde of students to occupy you.”

 

Galen shakes his head, nudging his nose along Orson’s cheek. “I don’t mind it. There’s a certain peace in having an extended amount of quiet to work in.”

 

“I still can’t believe they haven’t offered you a private office yet. No tenure after seven years, and nothing but a cubicle and a split lab. The Corps would be far more appreciative of your genius.”

 

Galen turns back towards the mouse droid, bristling at the hope in Orson’s voice. “I don’t think that I could withstand half of the abuse the Corps gives you,“ he says quickly, re-sealing its plating and setting it upright. “Especially Tarkin's.”

 

Orson takes Galen’s cheeks in his hands, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited him for dinner tonight.”

 

“Why would you do that? He’s done nothing but antagonize you since you started designing his command center.”

 

Galen sighs as he watches the droid zoom off, hopefully to repair the dispenser before Tarkin arrives.

 

“Decorum, darling,” Orson purrs. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

 

Galen gives him a pointed look, rising up to put away his toolbox and shower before Orson can try any more of his charming words. He would mutter about short notice like a put-upon market wife, but the sounds of Orson trailing behind him towards the fresher and undressing are enough to pacify his irritation for the moment.

 

Orson smiles hungrily, kissing Galen until they’re both gasping for breath. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe from that skull-faced bastard.”

 

Galen begins to lather his hair, attempting to ignore Orson’s cock where it presses insistently against his thigh. “My hero.”

 

“My Galen,” Orson coos into his ear, holding their bodies flush together, kissing him once more. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

 

“Please,” Galen chokes out, his hands slipping along Orson’s wet back, composure lessening with every press of their lips.

 

Orson grins, squeezing Galen’s thigh as he pulls away. “I like it when you’re needy.”

 

“Please,” Galen tries again, the headiness of his sudden restraint urging him to stroke up and down Orson’s body, to feel along the flat plane of his chest, to kiss the warm hollow of his throat.

 

“Not now. Tarkin should be here in an hour and I need to tell E3 to make a third plate.”

 

Galen moans desperately when Orson dodges his mouth, his fingers finding purchase against the curve of his ass.

 

“I won’t take long.”

 

“Fucking bold tonight,” Orson growls, finally kissing Galen while he tries to position their cocks together. “You should stay at home and play with droids more often.”

 

Galen nods, deepening the kiss and stroking them both in a practiced motion until Orson withdraws himself, pushing Galen under the spray of water.

 

Orson let out an empty, unfamiliar laugh while Galen sputters, cursing under his breath. He steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips, not bothering to toss one to him as well.

 

“I told you—later.”

 

Galen closes his eyes, shaking his discomfort off as he rubs a towel against his hair, attempting to ignore the ache of his erection bobbing with every motion.

 

“Don’t bother getting that down,” Orson smirks, teasing Galen with a lick of his lips. “It suits you.”

 

The door chimes to allow entry, and Galen is nearly startled halfway across the room by Orson’s shout.

 

“The bastard’s already here!”

 

 

+

Tarkin is waiting in the landing when they stumble out of their room, authorized and ushered in by the security droid that seems unmoved by Orson’s raw, steely gaze upon it.

There is an immediately unsettling quality to Tarkin, Galen thinks—one that goes beyond than his military posture and gaunt figure. His features remind Galen of an overly-detailed sketch by one of his Mineral Sciences students, shaded in heavily underneath his cheekbones and along his forehead, the creases of his face lined in too delicately and yet without the correct precision. Smiling would not make him more attractive, nor would civilian clothes. There is an intrinsic pride under his disdain, a mechanical, fixed certainty that causes a heavy chill to set in Galen’s chest despite Orson’s warmth pressed against him.

 

“Gentleman,” he says without enthusiasm, his eyes raking pointedly over Orson’s discarded clothes in the corridor behind them. “How good of you to be prepared to host on such short notice.”

 

“I hadn’t expected you to be available tonight when I invited you to dine with Galen and I,” Orson remarks, shifting to hide the mess. “I had imagined that your social schedule would be much more difficult to re-arrange.”

 

Tarkin’s lower lip quirks to the left in an unsettling mimicry of a smile, moving past them to step into the room at large. “An elegant apartment.  My compliments to the architect you outsourced.”

 

Galen chokes upon a laugh at the childish way Orson’s face colors with rage.

 

“I designed it. Every centimeter. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

 

Tarkin’s only response is an imprecise hum. His eyes lower, resting upon the crook of Galen’s arm and the weight of Orson’s twined within it.

 

“We should be seated,” Galen says, his words sharper than he intends them to be.

 

“Good thinking, darling,” Orson replies too eagerly, his arm locking more tightly through Galen’s until they reach the table. He pulls out Galen’s chair with a flourish, seemingly unaware of Galen’s hand where it reluctantly rests upon his wrist.

 

“Let me just get us a bottle of wine, and I’ll see how dinner is coming along.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Tarkin stares intently at Orson’s retreating figure before turning slowly back towards Galen.

 

“I’ve been told you that receive funding through the Corps of Engineers. You are no doubt grateful that the varying branches of the Republic’s scientific pursuits do not frown upon fraternization.”

 

Galen nods, unable to meet Tarkin’s narrowed, piercing eyes.

 

“Yes, teaching. Such a humble profession for one lauded by many more than just your husband. Your modesty is certainly something to be noted.”

 

“Thank you,” Galen mutters, relief cool against his skin when he sees Orson returning, disappearing when he stops halfway across the room.

 

“Well,” Orson says brightly, “it seems that Galen, in the midst of grading, forgot to repair our repair droid. It looks like we’ll be ordering in tonight.”

 

Tarkin’s smile towards Galen is nearly indulgent in its condescension. “These things do happen. Perhaps you _are_ better suited to pursuits that do not require a more exacting attention to detail.”

 

Orson’s eyes shift anxiously against Tarkin’s. “Why don’t we have ourselves a glass of brandy while we wait? I keep a decanter out on the veranda.”

 

Galen stifles his frustration as he rises, recalling the similar way his father would twist his words, shaming him into silence for mistakes another had made. Resentment for Orson boils high in his throat, tightening it far more than the thought of walking upon the veranda’s transparisteel floor. What is it about Tarkin that has seemingly turned his own husband into a competitor rather than an ally?

 

 

+

The veranda is every bit as unpleasant as it always is, jutting proudly into the darkening sky, its small bench and potted trees resting atop the traffic below them as though levitated by a Jedi’s trick. Galen has never liked spending time out upon it, confronted with the view that still dizzies him even after all these years without the comforting musk of soil and sediment beneath his feet.

 

Tarkin sits down once again, pouring himself a glass of brandy while he watches Orson slip in front of Galen and sit upon the other half of the bench. Orson smiles, his eyes wicked with anticipation as he pats his knee.

 

“We don’t mind sharing a seat. I originally designed this outlook for Galen, though he hasn’t taken to it. You much prefer that hovel you call a laboratory, isn’t that right?”

 

Galen feels Tarkin’s disapproval seep thickly into his skin, his face heating with shame at the satisfaction in Orson’s smile once he does as he’s been asked. The nostalgic sullenness rises within him once again, however, and he does not respond.

 

“I can’t imagine why,” Tarkin replies smugly, staring at Galen’s lowered face. “I would imagine such heights would prove tempting for a scientist to explore.”

 

Orson’s throat reddens, his thigh quivering beneath Galen. “As would I.”

 

Tarkin sips his brandy, unimpressed. “I was telling Professor Erso that you both are quite fortunate that the Corps of Engineers permits marriages between those who serve in it. The military is not so generous.”

 

Orson nods, his laugh high and false. “Can you believe that some of my interns still don’t realize we’re married? It would just be too much trouble to have all of Galen’s publications and prizes edited, though I’ve always fancied seeing our names linked on an office door.”

 

Tarkin’s eyes narrow, unamused and unimpressed. “How charming.”

 

Orson drinks deeply before pressing his nearly-emptied glass into Galen’s hand. “It really is a shame that he’s chosen not to continue his energy research in the Corps when we could do far greater work together. Don’t you agree, Admiral?”

 

Galen feels a cold rush flood through him, Orson’s breath hot against the nape of his neck. Why is Orson discussing their oldest argument with this man? _Say something_ , he tells himself, unwilling to listen to any more of their petty condescension.

 

Galen swallows the remainder of the brandy, speaking before he is certain of what he is saying.

 

“Orson and I…“ he begins, trailing off while he watches Tarkin glance down at his comlink’s flashing light.

 

“I am being called to action,” he says, setting his brandy firmly back upon the table before rising. “Sadly, war does not cease while we wait for our dinners.”

 

“Orson and I both proudly serve the Republic,” Galen finally manages, feeling Orson’s body tense against his. “In different ways, of course, but with equal pride.”

 

“Yes,” Tarkin replies tersely, “all citizens should serve the Republic where they are most capable of doing so. Wherever that may be.”

 

“I agree, Admiral,” Orson adds quickly, jostling Galen in his haste to stand and fit their arms together once more. “And Galen’s place is by my side.”

 

Tarkin’s mouth stiffens in a humorless smile. “I shall see myself out. Good evening, gentleman.”

 

Galen does not wait until Tarkin has crossed fully into the apartment before tugging himself free from Orson, sitting down once again. He is hurt more than he is angry, he realizes, ashamed of Orson’s crudeness beyond the fury another man would feel. Orson has degraded him with his praise, demoted him into an object as prestigious yet inanimate as the Kuat Medal on the shelf over their bed.

 

“Good riddance!” Orson shouts once they’ve heard the hum of Tarkin’s speeder igniting, followed immediately by the Corona’s delivery code activation. He stalks back towards Galen, who is suddenly, terribly aware of the gleaming shuttles and bikes that race miles beneath his feet.

 

“What?” Orson huffs when Galen doesn’t laugh, his mouth forming into a familiar set-upon pout. “I just wanted to show you off a little, darling.”

 

“You were being a bastard,” Galen mutters, hurrying across the transparent walk back into the security of their apartment. “I’m quite capable of choosing my profession myself.”

 

“Of course you are! My brilliant, brilliant man.” Orson’s hand trails down Galen’s arm, resting against his side. “I was only bragging a bit—showing Tarkin what he can never have.”

 

“By blaming me for your mistakes and then insulting my work?”

 

Orson winces, though Galen knows him too intimately to believe his regret is genuine. He ducks away from Orson’s kiss, from the hand that has begun to rub lower on his hip.

 

“Mm, and you were begging me for it earlier,” Orson tuts, shaking his head. “Do you need Daddy to get you hard again?”

 

The name is ugly on Orson’s lips, as distasteful and out of place as his behavior has been all evening. Galen has heard jokes about it, of course—drunken stupidity at the parties Orson never fails to drag him to whenever he manages an invitation. It is a derisive term, meant for slaves and masters on the levels beneath them or for men like Tarkin, for whom sex is power rather than intimacy. It is not meant for a couple who has been married for six years, for former Academy sweethearts who still greet one another with eager hands and curious mouths.

 

Galen shrugs away awkwardly, pacing towards the window overlooking the spread of Dr. Yare’s garden.

 

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather hear you say right now,” Orson purrs, pulling Galen roughly against him and cupping his chin. “Please?”

 

“Orson, why don’t we just—“

 

Orson kisses him once more and Galen does not resist, letting his own frustration spur him into countering Orson’s devouring mouth. This is hardly the first time they’ve fallen into bed like this following an argument or a foul mood, after all. Orson will be petulant and rough until he sees Galen spread out beneath him on their bed, flushed and wanting. He’ll grin smugly, preparing himself as quickly as he can before sitting astride him, setting a brutal pace until his anger has passed.

 

“Good boy,” Orson hisses, undressing them as he leads them to the bed, their clothes joining his uniform upon the floor of the corridor. Galen shudders against the brush of their skin, frightened by the arousal he feels from such cheap praise.

 

“Daddy’s good boy,” Orson coos, working Galen open with a focus that floods his body with pleasure. “You’re going to be so good for Daddy now, aren’t you?”

 

Galen whimpers, rutting against Orson’s fingers until they’re withdrawn with a slap to his thigh.

 

“Answer me!” Orson shouts, driving himself into Galen with a brief, excruciating thrust. “Are you going to be a good boy? Because you were very naughty before.”

 

“Orson,” Galen gasps between rough kisses, panic throbbing in his belly beside his arousal. “This isn’t—“

 

“Say it,” Orson pants desperately, looking directly into Galen’s eyes with a genuine, raw need that nearly makes him soften with fear. “Say it. _Say it_ , Galen!”

 

“Daddy!” Galen shouts twice, as though the volume of his cries could stop the horrible desire rising in his chest. “Daddy—Daddy, please!”

 

Orson grunts, tightening his grip on Galen’s waist.

 

“Again, boy.”

 

“Daddy!” Galen chokes out, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. He keens into his heated skin, eyes stinging with frustration and shame.

 

Orson shudders above him, the hot hand that rests against his hip teasing along the length of his cock. “No. Show me!” Orson begs, pinning Galen’s elbow against the mattress, forcing their eyes to meet. “Show Daddy how good it feels.”

 

Galen nods through his tears, bucking upwards into Orson’s grasp. He feels Orson grab his wrists with his other hand, pressing them into the headboard hard enough to bruise. He does not struggle against his restraint, still rutting upwards into Orson’s hand, still unable to match his gaze.

 

“So needy,” Orson pants, stroking along Galen’s cock roughly, nearly pulling himself fully out of Galen on his next thrust. “Such a fucking needy boy.”

 

Galen nods again before he realizes what he is agreeing to, looking up at Orson with all the ugliness this night has brought them.

 

“Daddy,” Orson sobs, biting into the flesh above Galen’s clavicle, his cheek pressing against the side of his neck. He buries himself inside Galen with one final thrust that crashes their bodies agonizingly together.

 

Galen’s eyes roll backwards, the primal mixture of pleasure and pain coupled with the fullness of Orson’s seed overwhelming him. He hears himself let out a guttural noise, his climax seizing him until, finally, he is aware again of Orson’s weight atop him.

 

Galen grits his teeth against the rush of emotions that sting every bit as sharply as they had before. There is a slickness against his chest that remains as his pleasure fades into a dull exhaustion and it takes Galen several moments to question whether it is Orson’s sweat or his tears that dampen his skin.

 

“Orson?” he murmurs, pathetically grateful for the groan he receives in response.

 

Orson lifts his head slowly, nudging his nose against Galen’s jaw. “C’mere.”

 

Galen kisses him tentatively, pulling away when he feels Orson’s grin spread against his lips. He believes himself forgiven, easily settling into the affection that he always shows in the moments after they’ve fought and fucked and yet remain in each other's arms.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he mutters, extricating himself and wrapping a blanket around himself, Orson doubtlessly asleep by the time he’s left the room and stepped out onto the veranda. The view beneath his bare feet is less intimidating alone, the dull, ragged feeling of Orson’s release pulsing inside him and dripping down his thighs onto the surface below.

 

Galen settles himself upon the bench, the blanket mostly ineffective against the chill of the transparisteel. He craves Orson’s weight pressed against him with a vicious ache, though he cannot bring himself to seek it out. Orson’s blood runs hot, but it never fails to simmer back to the warmth Galen knows that he’d find were he to return to bed.

 

Galen sighs, lying down upon the bench and watching the traffic beneath him until he is finally lulled into sleep, his fear slowly overwhelmed by his trust in Orson’s handiwork.

 

 


End file.
